


Softly, Now, I Have You

by ProneToRelapse



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Domesticity, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Makeup, Slice of Life, Soft boys being soft and in love, a disgusting amount of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-11 00:37:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15960953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProneToRelapse/pseuds/ProneToRelapse
Summary: Hank helps Connor indulge in something simple that, to him, means so much more than that.





	Softly, Now, I Have You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meaiku](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meaiku/gifts).



> For Meaiku who, as always, is a shining light in my life. I hope this makes you happy!

_Melancholy. Temptation. Midnight. Catastrophe._  

 

Connor doesn’t understand the names, doesn’t quite know what to make of them. This is a bizarre human behaviour he’s not yet encountered, but it’s fascinating in its simplicity. Even if, for him, it’s complex and thoroughly puzzling.  

 

 _Halcyon. Passion. Sunset. Eternity._  

 

He likes the names. A lot. He thinks they reveal something quite wonderful about humanity. He knows a lot of them have an appreciation for art, for aesthetics and things that they find visually pleasing on a purely superficial level. Connor extends his forefinger, swiping it through the vibrant blue powder named  _Halcyon._ His optics recognise the hexidecimal code, should he want to replicate it, #2979FF, but he pushes that down to just focus on the soft, almost silky texture, the way the pigment coats his skin, the way it sparkles in the dim light of the lamp in the corner.  

 

He slips his finger between his lips. The response is immediate and extensive.  

 

 _Talc, mica,_ _aluminium starch_ _octenylsuccinate_ _, silica,_ _octyldodecyl_ _stearoyl_ _stearate, vinyl_ _dimethicone_ _, calcium sodium borosilicate,_ _ethylhexylglycerin_ _._  

 

Connor pauses as he analyses the powder, registering a comparison notification. There is a substance match between one of the ingredients that make up the glittering pigment of the  _Halcyon_  shade, and part of the biosynthetic grafting compound of his pseudodermal layer.  

 

Connor is made up of the same things as the pretty makeup palette that caught his eye in the store yesterday. The thought makes him… happy. A deep thrum of pleased satisfaction to know that he is, in part, made up of the same chemical ingredients that comprise a frivolous little thing that make so many humans happy.  

 

It is a completely ridiculous thought.  

 

Connor is very pleased with it.  

 

He picks up the brush that sits in the palette’s compartment, thumb brushing over the soft bristles. He draws it gently over the  _Halcyon_  shade, coating the fine hairs with the pigment, and lifts it to his own face. He does not need a mirror, he knows perfectly well the layout of his own features, and his hand will not falter. In a slow swipe he draws the blue across his left eyelid.  

 

Then realises he does need a mirror, because he wants to see how it looks.  

 

He gathers up the little collection and takes it with him to the bathroom. His reflection in the mirror shows a bright blue streak across the curve of his eyelid. It looks. Strange. Not bad. Just different.  

 

He wets a wash cloth and wipes the blue streak from his face. Pats it dry with the towel on the railing. He looks back at the palette and realises he has no idea what to do.  

 

His mind reacts instantly in the face of an absence of information. His reflection’s LED whirs yellow for two-point-eight-three seconds, simply because of the amount of data available under the root subject. It is almost overwhelming.  

 

“What are you doing?” 

 

Connor looks to the doorway. Hank is leaning there, coat hanging half off one shoulder, Sumo’s leash still in hand, though no longer attached to the animal. Connor can hear Sumo eagerly lapping up water in the kitchen, slobbering all over the floor. He smiles.  

 

“Indulging my curiosity,” Connor says. “They caught my eye.” 

 

Hank shrugs out of his coat proper and disappears back into the hallway to hang it up before returning to the bathroom. He picks up the eyeshadow palette, turning it over in his hands.  

 

“Nice colours,” he says. “Want a hand?” 

 

That… Brings up so many questions. For once, Connor does not ask, simple sits himself down on the closed toilet seat with a bright, eager smile and a little nod. Hank smiles faintly and takes the brush Connor offers him, wiping the excess blue pigment off on the back of his hand and swiping it through the pale, creamy shade named  _Sandstorm._ Connor closes his eyes and Hank steps between his parted knees, the soft bristles gently sweeping over his left eyelid a few moments later.  

 

“When I was a kid,” Hank says softly, pitched too low to echo even in the tiled expanse of the bathroom, “I used to play with my mom’s makeup. Lipstick mostly. Made good fake blood when me and my sister were playing pirates.” 

 

Connor smiles.  

 

“Obviously I had to compromise,” Hank continues. His heart rate thrums steadily. Comfortingly. “Frankie always wanted to be the Captain, but I made her the first mate. So I had to let her practice makeup on me so she wouldn’t complain. Or, you know, punch me.” 

 

Connor runs a search for sibling behaviours. That seems well within the parameters of normal familial behaviour. Connor has yet to meet Francine Anderson, but he would very much like to.  

 

“Got quite good at doing hers, too,” Hank murmurs. The soft swipe of the brush against Connor’s skin is almost hypnotic. Coupled with Hank’s low voice, Connor almost feels like he could drop into stasis, warm and pleased and content. “Came in handy when I got older. Something attractive about a guy with eyeliner on, I don’t know what to tell you.” 

 

Connor runs a simulation. He agrees.  

 

Hank steps away for a moment to survey the other items Connor purchased for himself on a delightful whim. He loves it, being at the mercy of sudden, irrational desires. He saw something pretty in the store, so he purchased it. Frivolous. Inexplicable.  

 

 _Human._  

 

“Did it a bit more for pride and shit, too.” Hank steps back up between Connor’s legs. “Open your mouth a little.” 

 

Connor obeys. He feels something slick but viscous against his lower lip. He resists the urge to flick his tongue out to taste it. He already knows what it is.  

 

“You’ve got a good eye,” Hank tells him. “Picked colours that suited you. Did you do that on purpose?” 

 

Connor makes a negative sound, a low hum in his throat.  

 

“Just picked what you liked?” 

 

An affirmative.  

 

“That’s… Shit, Connor, that’s perfect, I love it.” 

 

Yes, Hank does love when Connor chooses things for himself. The less of a reason or explanation behind the actions the better. Connor loves it to. An act of defiance, but an easy one. Incalculable. Errant and driven by no other factors than that he  _can._  

 

Deviancy.  

 

Freedom.  

 

 _Choice._  

 

Hank steps back. “Oh, hang on. One last touch. No peeking.” 

 

Connor does not. He listens as Hank heads into his bedroom. Listens to the sounds of a drawer sliding open, the clicks and taps of objects inside being moved around. Then Hank is back and something is brushing through his eyelashes, coating them, stiffening them.  

 

“All done,” Hank says.  

 

Connor opens his eyes. Stands. Looks in the mirror.  

 

There is a gradient on his eyes, pale in the corners, sweeping into blue, darkening at the edges. His lashes are dark and long, elegant. His lips are stained with the soft blush of the gloss. He looks…  

 

“Beautiful,” Hank says, eyes meeting Connor’s in his reflection. His hands are warm on his shoulders. “It’s a good look for you. Do you like it?” 

 

Connor nods.  

 

He leaves hundreds of perfect imprints of his lips along Hank’s body, staining the skin with the gentle pink shade of the gloss with the perfect name.  

 

 _Devotion._  

 

 

 


End file.
